


The Cake Is a Lie

by Marmosette



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Food Issues, M/M, Mycroft does NOT eat cake like that, Mycroft's diet, Stop saying that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-20
Updated: 2012-02-20
Packaged: 2017-10-31 11:17:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/343464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marmosette/pseuds/Marmosette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I got tired of all the "LOL OMG Mycroft <3 CAKE!!! LOLololololo" stuff. I snapped. I wondered what would happen if Mycroft saw it. I maintain that his response is far too restrained.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Cake Is a Lie

Mycroft Holmes did not look up from his computer screen as he heard Greg come in.

“You home?” Greg called from the kitchen.

“Why do you persist in asking when you know I am?” Mycroft said, not entirely loud enough, his eyes flicking across the screen, his fingers stroking the touchpad.

“What’s happened?” Greg asked, pausing in the doorway.

Mycroft looked up at him. He was carrying his jacket and his laptop bag, already frowning in concern. Mycroft would have liked to laugh or even smile, but it wasn’t worth the effort. “ _Look_ at this, Gregory.” He leaned back and gestured at the screen.

Greg left his laptop on the floor near the doorway and slung his jacket on top. “What’s wrong?” he asked again, looking from Mycroft’s face to the screen. “That’s my blog.”

“And do remind me sometime to thank John Watson properly for starting you on it.”

Lestrade ran his fingers across the touchpad. “So what’s pissed you off?”

“Someone sent me a link to this.” 

“Yeah? And? You knew about it... oh.” Greg bit his lip. “Yeah, that’s... that’s not flattering.”

“No.”

“But... I mean, they’re just kids, aren’t they? Having a laugh.”

“This is me laughing. No, wait, they’ve got one for that too.”

Greg snorted. “Oh. Sorry. No, no, that’s just _daft_.” He scrolled further. “Oh, this is just sick.”

“I genuinely don’t think I’m a vain person, but the mindset behind this is disturbing.”

“Yeah, I see what you mean. I mean, why cake? Is there some kind of fetish involved?”

“Oh, there are those as well,” Mycroft said quickly, turning away and getting to his feet. “I understand _those_.” 

“But chocolate sauce? And... oh, this is just... People actually know how many calories there are in _semen?”_ Greg said in disgust. “And that never strikes them as a little bit far?”

“Obviously not. And of course that’s what’s going on here. What happens between two people should stay as private as the two concerned wish. But when the fixation on someone’s weight is so ingrained that they project it to this degree, on this kind of social media, it really does deserve an answer. Possibly a solution.”

“No, Mycroft,” Greg said quickly.

“No, not like that,” Mycroft waved his hand in irritation. 

“Don’t tell me you want to start a flame war. Mycroft Holmes has been trolled.”

Mycroft looked at him. “I realise someone somewhere thinks that you are a great communicator, and this is why you end up doing all the press conferences you love so much, but _really,_ Greg.”

“So what did you have in mind?”

Mycroft sighed and turned away. “Oh, nothing. There’s really nothing one _can_ do on this level. I know what kind of atmosphere repression breeds, but it’s become Ourouboros. Repression that promotes itself. Japanese culture has fetishised repression to the point of vending the panties of school girls. Bura-sera and roricon have spread to the West until even young girls are absorbing it without having any idea what they’re promoting. The worship of the slender and youthful has killed in numbers comparable to the bullying of the homosexual, and while these children happily embrace the LGBT rainbow agenda, they are still slaves to the obsession with slimming.”

“You angling to become the new role model for everything, then?” Greg asked, slouched in Mycroft’s chair, tapping one of his fountain pens against his lips. 

Mycroft turned back to look at him, startled. “Good heavens, no.”

“Then who did you have in mind?” Greg asked reasonably.

“I think I have enough responsibilities as it is, thank you. I just wish you could take down that stupid blog.”

Greg grinned evilly. “Okay, now that is vanity.”

“Oh, _Greg._ Don’t be so petty.”

“But it is!”

“It isn’t vanity. I understand the thinking behind using you as a human, approachable face for the MPS. You’re a good choice. You’ve been thrust to the fore by my brother’s notoriety and your reputation as his keeper. But this blog is only going to attract the attention of teenage girls.”

“And teenage boys, I like to think,” Greg added reasonably.

“Hardly.”

“Why not? Why girls? I mean, it’s not like we’re making a secret of the fact that we’re not interested.”

“We’re not interested in _anyone_ else, of _any_ gender,” Mycroft pointed out. “But no, it will be mostly girls, believe me.”

“What makes you so sure?”

Mycroft gave him an old look. “Greg. For the same reason every straight young man is secretly hoping that someday his wife and her best friend or her sister will offer a threesome. Two for the price of one. They don’t have to decide which they want to fantasize about if they can have the two together. Every teenage girl goes through a ‘gay men’ phase.”

“Yes, but with us, it’s a perfectly understandable desire. I mean, just look at us.” Greg spun the monitor around, showing one of the pictures Sally had snapped of them, Greg pressing Mycroft for a kiss, Mycroft’s long back toward the camera, his waistcoat emphasizing his narrow hips and his shoulders spread as he caught his lover’s hands.

The image drew a faint smile from Mycroft. “I’m not entirely sure that’s what they were expecting you to post on a blog, Greg.”

“It’s what they’ve got,” Greg grinned, unrepentant. 

“It’s what _I’ve_ got,” Mycroft said. “I still wish things were other than as they are.” He sighed.

“Well, look,” Greg said, getting to his feet and moving around the desk to where Mycroft was leaning against a chair, staring out the window. “They already know we’re an item, yeah? So how about if I just remind them, now and then, what they’re dealing with. I mean, they know Sherlock by now - they must do, if they know who I am. And how much he can figure out about someone he passes in a hallway, or a ten-word message on Twitter. So what I’ll do, see, is I’ll just remind them that Sherlock is the dumber of the Holmes brothers. And what your intelligence network is like.”

“Don’t you dare,” Mycroft cut in, but he was smiling.

“Okay, I won’t go into detail. But all I have to do is remind them that you’re watching. And that whatever they do, you’ll see, and you’ll know more about them from that than they will ever know about you.”

“Mm. Just let me make a few examples out of some of the ruder ones, and I shall accept your proposition.”

“Now, now, Mycroft. Be nice.”

“And why should I? They aren’t being particularly nice about me.”

“They’re just children.”

“A good time for them to learn that in life, people will not always hold back. They will not always be dealing with fair people, their parents will not always be there to back them, punishment will not always be withheld in consideration of other qualities. Life is full of consequences, and it is no kindness to teach them otherwise.”

“Hellfire, Mycroft, what your childhood must have been like...”

“Entirely acceptable. You’ve always seemed satisfied with the result.”

“Still. Life may not always be fair, but some things _are_ choices. Just because life is unkind, that’s no reason that we should choose to be unkind as well.”

Mycroft sighed and reached up to rest his hand on Greg’s forearm across his chest. “ _Suscipiam._   Truce. But there will never be another word about cake, or I shall not be held responsible.”

“Fair enough.”


End file.
